Patric Chiha’s latest film Russian Winter explores the lives of a group of friends who fled Russia after Ukraine’s invasion, but does so in a nontraditional style.
Chiha has a diverse background, having made various types of films across both narrative and documentary forms. That background in narrative features bleeds into the foreground here, with an opening that feels closer to fiction filmmaking than documentary. There are frequent uses of filters and computer-generated post-effects — not to fabricate imagery, but to distort color. It’s an interesting approach, especially given that the content itself is firmly documentary: interviews and standard conversations.
While the opening is inventive and intriguing, Chiha’s direction ultimately feels inconsistent and scattered. The film begins in an untraditional, stylized manner, using inventive and almost fictional techniques to draw the viewer in. Then, almost abruptly, it shifts into a far more conventional mode — people talking while the camera follows them — abandoning the elevated, artistic approach. This creates a ripple effect on the film’s overall tone.
The shift in visual style isn’t the only element that changes; the pacing does as well, moving from steady to noticeably slow. This change feels tied as much to the cinematography as to the direction. Altering the visual language, editing rhythm, and framing so drastically has a direct impact on the pacing, making the same subject matter feel more dull and less engaging.
While the themes remain consistent, the longer, wider shots often feel less cinematic and more observational — like someone recording their own conversation rather than crafting a documentary experience. Because the questions aren’t directed toward the viewer or framed with a strong narrative throughline, the film loses some of its informational weight.
In Exit Through the Gift Shop, Banksy speaks directly to the audience, reflecting on his experiences and how they shaped him, as well as the cultural climate surrounding him. It doesn’t rely on overt cinematic flourishes, yet it remains engaging because the viewer feels addressed. In contrast, Russian Winter often feels like the camera is simply present rather than guiding the conversation.
From a contextual perspective, the film also fluctuates. What begins as structured conversation gradually becomes more informal. When one subject discusses his girlfriend at the time and how they differed in responding to significant moments — such as the war — the insight feels personal and revealing, offering more than just an update on circumstances.
Early in the film, we hear a powerful reflection on one person’s relationship with fear. It is bold and revealing, offering an in-depth look at his mindset. There is also discussion of a generation that feels it has no future in Russia due to a crumbling system. A 2003 interview with an alternative rock band highlights censorship and the inability to express themselves freely. These moments are sharp and compelling, drawing the viewer into the broader implications of displacement, repression, and generational uncertainty.
But as the film progresses, that sharpness slowly dissipates.